New Dreams
by Rhys
Summary: The X-Men die, and those that are left try to convince Xavier that the Dream's still true by getting more students. But when one of them's a young Wisdom, the number of corpses might rise! You know how he gets along with people...especailly people like Cy
1.

New Dreams ****

New Dreams

SUMMARY: Most of the X-Men are killed in a horrible battle. Trying to convince the depressed Professor Xavier that the Dream still has merit, the few that are left gather a few new trainees—and one of them's Pete Wisdom! Convincing a young Pete Wisdom that he should give up a new, interesting career with Black Air to join a band of super-hero idealistic misfits is enough to let anyone, especially Xavier, know that the Dream still matters. But knowing how well Wisdom gets along with people, will their be more corpses to add to the numbers? 

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DISCLAIMER: Me own nothing. Me making no money. You no sue me. We get along fine. D'accord? Entendu. Merci! So read already!

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*NOTE* The Professor has recently received a communication that many of his "children" are dead. This story doesn't really fit into the continuity anyway, and is just a "What If…?" I got stuck in my head. It's about…oh…maybe fifteen Marvel "years" ago, maybe even twenty, who knows. Like I said, not fitted into the continuity anywhere. So sure me; just be warned, one of my field hockey teammate's dad is a lawyer. J Anyway, here's a current roster, and their status. (If they're "alive" and with the team right now, I wrote "alive" next to their name; if they're "dead" I wrote "dead" next to them. Pretty self-explanatory, but…) And no, you won't find Emily Jones anywhere in Marvel (I hope not!) because I made her up. If there is someone called that, let me know, please, so I can change it… Here we go; drum-roll, please…

Professor Charles F. Xavier – Alive Ororo Munroe/Storm – Dead

Moira MacTaggert –Alive Rogue – Dead

Scott Summers/Cyclops –Alive Alison Blair/Dazzler – Dead

Logan/Wolverine – Alive Henry Hank McCoy/Beast – Dead 

Katherine Pryde/Shadowcat – Alive Warren Worthington, III/Archangel – Dead

Robert Drake/Iceman – Alive Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler – Dead

Remy LeBeau/Gambit – Dead

Piotr Rasputin/Colossus – Dead

Elizabeth Braddock/Psylocke – Dead

Peter Wisdom – Recruit 

Emily Jones – Recruit

Jeremy Graves – Recruit 

Jean Grey (post Phoenix Saga here, peoples. Follow me? She's still in the river.) – Presumed "Dead"

The day started out bad and soon got worse. First Kitty Pryde tripped over her dragon's tail in the kitchen; she instinctively phased…right through the coffee maker, which meant that nobody could have their normal morning cup. That put Logan in a bad mod, as Scott Summers found out when he left his bedroom. They bumped into each other. Scott's glasses—the only things that could keep his power in check—went flying across the hallway. The ruby quartz was, thankfully, strong enough to survive the flight into the wall. The plastic nose-bridge wasn't so lucky, but that was just aesthetics; nothing irreparable. He would tape them if they'd broke—probably had, it sounded like a big _crack_, but that could have been from running into metal bones—but he couldn't tape the walls if he blinked. Luckily, the younger man was the one to fall down. Luckily, he'd even managed to close his eyes. Luckily, the claws even stayed sheathed. Mainly, because it was fun to see Cyclops on his butt. Also, he'd managed to muscle his way into some danger room time. The shorter man growled and kept walking, leaving Summers to grope blindly for his glasses. Neither man, of course, would think too kindly of the other for at _least_ a day.

Then…things got worse.

* * *

"Professor, are you sure?" Cyclops asked incredulously for the thousandth time. Wolverine was sick of it—and him—by now. 

"Course he's sure, you idiot," Logan growled around his cigar, "if he weren't, he'd tell us he wasn't sure." Wolverine was rarely the nicest of people. And when he got bad news, he turned downright nasty. Kitty swallowed loudly enough to make Logan feel bad; the kid had to be hurting too, he was sure—but Cyclops didn't take a hint.

"Listen, Logan, I'm just asking for clarification," he relied, his own temper starting to rise. Bad news did that to some people, and these two mutants were some of them. 

"Scues me, Scotty-boy, if I don't want to hear someone askin' over and over again if some buddies of mine are really dead."

"They're my friends, too, Logan, and if something like this might have happened, it's better to be sure—"

"The worst thing is to _be _sure and have some boy-scout keep repeatin' himself like a dam—" Wolverine managed to correct his language in time when he remembered the kid was in the room—"darned parrot!" 

"Now you listen to me—"

No, the Professor thought loudly in their heads to get their attention, _both_ of you listen to _me_. Thank you, he added, then switched over to normal speech. "Now, I suggest you both go mourn our friends in your own way _without_ killing one another. We do _not_ need any more deaths. This has been a…a terrible loss," he concluded harshly, forcing himself to be professional and not give into emotions. He sat, impassively, hiding his thoughts, as the small remainder of his students filed by, absorbed in their own shock and loss. Only after they were all gone and the door had shut did he allow the mask to crack.

The youngest student, Kitty Pryde, was the only one to catch that, turning and starting to walk back through the door to ask the professor if he was all right. She was the only one of them to see the tears rolling quietly down their mentor and father's cheeks. To see the utter dejection, the complete sense of loss…to see the moment of failure…to see what might be another death to add to the already tragic number witnessed by this house…to see what she fervently hoped wasn't someone awakening…awakening from…from a dream…

* * *

Katherine Pryde stormed into the Danger Room, where Cyclops and Wolverine were heartily trying to kill themselves, each other, and everything else in it. Angrily, she stalked through the chaos and holographic monstrosities, too upset to be frightened or startled by it. Intangible, she marched straight through the computerized carnage and slapped the emergency "abort" button. Wolverine and Cyclops were…rather putout at having their bloodbath interrupted. Both turned to look at the teen standing in front of them, mouths open and ready to yell. Kitty managed to speak first, making far more noise than something that skinny should have been able to project, especially into such a large, unacoustical room.

"You two are the biggest jerks in the world I can't believe you you are so stupid and mean and cruel and _nasty_! The Professor is in there _crying _and all you two can do is try to kill each other! I cannot believe you how could you be so heartless? He's all depressed and thinks he failed them and I'm afraid he's going to give up and send us home and you two aren't doing anything to help at _all_! I _hate_ you!"

For about three breathes, they just stood there and stared at the teary-eyed, murderous-looking angry girl in front of them, shooting death-glares to rival Cyclops's. Wolverine found his tongue first. 

"Chuck…give up?"

"I…don't believe it…"

"Fer once, Summers and I are in agreement, pun'kin. What'd you say?"

"I said the Professor is gonna get rid of the X-Men and I don't want to leave, Wolvie, I don't!" For a few heartbeats there was utter, complete silence in the Danger Room. Then Wolverine spoke again:

"Well…"

* * *

Hours later, sweaty, exhausted, and miserable, a short hairy fellow from Canada, a tall brown-haired man with red glasses, and a young teenager with wavy brown hair walked out of the Cerebro room. They had realized something about Cerebro; it helped if you were telepathic. Unfortunately, they couldn't let Xavier in on what they were doing, and the other telepath of the X-Men was…dead. 

Then Kitty got a brilliant idea. She ran back in, through the door. When Logan and Scott caught up with her—they'd had to wait for the door to open, while she'd just run through—she was in the middle of "killing" Cerebro. Both mutants stared at her. Then both screamed at her in unison.

"Don't worry, Wolvie. I know what I'm doing. And Scott, I am _not _killing it. I'm just phasing a few circuits so that I can reroute the tasking through the secondary processor, and…" From there, she went off on a string of computer jargon that neither man understood. Of course, neither one would admit that. Luckily for them—and their egos—Kitty recognized the blank looks she was getting and switched to something the layman would understand—but carefully, so that neither would realize that she was patronizing them, or had noticed their stupid looks. "So, basically," she continued, "I can work it with_out_ telepathic powers. It won't be, like, as good or anything, but it'll work—at least it should—more or less—and the self-repairing programs on it'll have it back to normal before midnight tonight. Trust me, guys. I know what I'm doing."

Both men nodded—considering that they hadn't understood a thing she'd said, they really didn't have a choice. And neither one was going to admit in front of the other that he needed something explained more carefully to him. It just wouldn't happen.

* * *

A few days later…

The plane touched down at the airport. One of its passengers looked around for someone…he wasn't sure who. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then glanced around again, wondering what he should do. The first thing, he decided, would be to get his luggage. As he was walking towards the baggage terminal, a strong hand dropped onto his shoulder.

"Sod off," he said instinctively, before turning to give the offender the evil eye. 

The "evil eye" died immediately. He looked down a few inches at a short, hairy guy in a leather jacket, chewing on a cigar. It wasn't the muscles or the strength of the hand that had caught him that stopped him, or even the "tough guy" look the man had to have cultivated that brought him up short.

It was the look in the eyes.

That "tough guy" image hadn't been carefully cultivated; it was just the truth. And he knew better than to mess with someone who had that look in his eyes—it had been painful every time he'd tried it—without his gun nearby, at least if the man hadn't done anything but grab his shoulder.

"Name's Logan," the man positively growled at him, but with a humorous look in his eye, as if he'd seen something about the younger man he thought could be amusing. 

Ah, so this was the guy that was supposed to meet him. "Pete Wisdom, mate," the young Brit replied, putting the cig back in his mouth. "So yer the bloke that's the reason I'm in this bleedin' county, 'ey?" he asked in a friendly voice. 

He didn't understand the feral smile that the other's lips curled into.

* * *

The bus arrived in New York City at four p.m. She looked around, unsure of what to do next. She didn't see anything…a taxi, maybe? She didn't know the address, but she could always ask the driver if they did…she didn't realize how uncomfortable she looked, or how scared. Well, until she jumped out her skin.

"Hello," a voice said from behind her. She spun around to see what was happening behind her, only then figuring out that the voice had been talking to her. "I said, hello. I'm here from Xavier's School. You're the person I'm supposed to meet, right?"

"Let em guess," she said, instantly on guard, "it's the hair?"

"Huh? Oh, that's how I recognized you, yeah. So?"

"So? You got a problem with it?"

"Huh? No, actually, I know this really sexy lady with purple hair…darker, but purple. Er…I guess I mean 'knew'…" his voice trailed off. She tried to think of something to say, not having meant to hurt him, whoever he was, but his face lit up with a smile like somebody shifting gears on a truck. "I'm Bobby Drake."

"Emily…Smith," she replied, uncertain of how far to trust the brown haired young man, who had continued talking without taking a breath.

"And if you'll follow me, I stole Scott's car, so we get to ride back for real, not in a taxi-cab. Oh, got any bag? Here, I'll carry them…hang on…" he looked around, like a little boy about to play a prank, before continuing. "Don't worry, I got 'em all."

__

Macho little chauvinist, she started to think at him, when she saw the ice spread out on the sidewalk in front of him. He skidded her bags onto it and reached his hand out towards her, as she stared in shock at the freezing area in front of them, evaporating almost instantly behind. 

"Ride on the Iceman Express, ma'am? The coolest transport in town. Please keep your arms, hands, legs, and beautiful bods inside the freezing zone at all times. For refreshment, we have ice-drinks of any shape imaginable instantly in stock for all your freezing pleasure…"

* * *

He was waiting on the hill at four-thirty, after school. He had a backpack and duffel bag packed. He had the note pinned to his pillow on his bed at home. He was doing his best not to cry. He almost screamed when the girl suddenly appeared in front of him. She was smiling, though, and didn't look like she was going to call the cops or his parents. So he settled for telling her where to go. That stopped her for a moment, but she walked—floated? impossible—up to him anyway. He grabbed a rock in his hand, a nice big one he'd already had picked out, just in case. 

"Go away," he warned her. She didn't stop, so he tossed the pebble he'd been playing with, just as a warning. 

She seemed unfazed. "Hi, you must be—"

"I said go away. Now."

"It doesn't look like you've changed your mind. I'm Ki—"

He threw the rock, dead on—well, not quite. He just wanted to make her go away, not hurt her. He threw it at her legs…and it went…right…through them…

"I'm Kitty Pryde. From Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," she said kindly. She knew what it was like to be afraid of other people…and of yourself. She smiled at him. "I'm pleased to meet you"

"I'm Jeremy Graves," he replied, "but I don't know how we're getting to this Westchester place." He wasn't certain if he wanted her to have an answer or not. He didn't know which would be worse; to creep home and live afraid, or to go to this other place to people who said they wanted to help…

"It's okay, I brought the Blackbird."

He raised an eyebrow, but stood up and shouldered his backpack anyway. "Blackbird?"

"Yeah. Want to see it?" He nodded skeptically…

And just about fell down on his rear. He stared at the…plane that had suddenly appeared in front of him. It was…marvelous was too weak a word…

"Wow…" he whispered to himself.

"It is pretty neat, isn't it? Come on. I'll let you sit in the co-pilot's chair."

* * *

Scott Summers just about blew the roof off. And _not_ because he'd dropped his glasses, either. "You _what_?!!?" he roared at the other three X-Men standing in front of him. 

"Uh, Scott—" Bobby began.

"How could you do that?"

"Easy, bub." Wolverine snorted, pulling out a cigar.

"We haven't' even checked them out yet!"

"Scott…" Kitty tried the 'you are so dumb look' but it didn't work.

"We don't even know what they do! What they look like!"

"Uh, actually—" Bobby didn't get the chance to finish.

"We don't even know what kind of people they are! How do you know we even _want_ them as X-Men yet? We haven't done _any_ research on them at all!"

"Uh, Scott…" Kitty tried to get his attention, but failed.

"We don't even—"

Wolverine finally got fed up. Out came the claws with a _snikt_ sound, right under Cyclops's throat. "Wanna shut-up a sec now, bub?" Logan asked, oh-so-nicely, of course.

"But we don't even know what they can do…" Scott muttered to himself, very quietly. Logan's super-sensitive sense of hearing picked it up anyway. 

"So find out," he growled and retracted the claws, _snakt_, back into the housings in his forearm. 

"What do you mean by—" Scott asked huffily, then, "oh."

The door to the War Room slid open and in walked three people. 

One was a dark-haired man somewhere between twenty-something and thirty. He had plain dark pants on, a white shirt rolled up to his elbows that looked like it had seen a lot a rumpling, and a loose black tie. He also had a look in his eyes that warned the unwary to be otherwise. He ran his cold blue eyes up and down the three in the room as if cataloguing them for threat assessment. He exchanged a look of…almost amusement with Wolverine. 

The second one into the room was a tall girl with short _bright_ violet hair and eyes. She looked like she was ready to run from the room if anyone looked at her cross-eyed. She was wearing slightly flared black pants, a silver belt, and a loose purple shirt, along with an enormous quantity of silver bangles and two hoop-earrings big enough to fit around her wrists. Her eyes flitted about nervously, straying to Bobby, who gave her a series of "encouraging" grins and "funny" faces. That probably wasn't helping.

The third one in was a young teen-aged boy. His tousled brown hair was covered with a battered baseball cap. His shirt was buttoned all the way up until it was on the point of choking him, and his dress pants were almost too short, but not quite. Obviously trying his hardest to make a good impression, he'd dressed in his best, whether it fit or not. He had a gaudy blue tie on (tied crookedly) that swam sickeningly with the light green shirt he was wearing. He sent Kitty a look of betrayal and, while obviously trying not to, glanced pointedly around the room at the others, flinching when he saw Wolverine staring straight back at him. He gulped audibly and fidgeted with his tie. 

Cyclops shot ruby-colored glares around the room at the four other X-Men, all pointedly ignoring him—well, except for Logan, who smiled back devilishly. He'd probably gone along with the plan just because he knew it would annoy Scoot. 

(Not _entirely_ for that reason, no, but that _was _a big factor in his considerations.)

"Well," Scott Summers said ominously at the three new arrivals. The girl and brown-haired teen looked like they were about to bolt. Good. The other one flicked him off. Scott's mouth opened and shut with a click. He blinked a few times behind his glasses. He could hear Logan sniggering behind him. And what was probably Bobby and Kitty trying to stifle their own giggles; it sounded like they were choking. Then he heard Iceman freeze his own mouth shut and Kitty hold her breath. He turned around and glared at the Canadian, but that only made the laughter increase. 

"Alright you three, out. I'm taking them down to show them the Danger Room. If you're coming, you can meet me in the observation booth in a few minutes. Kitty and Bobby traded a "look" about Cyclops that communicated very clearly what they left unsaid and left. Kitty turned back around and tugged on Wolverine's arm. 

"C'mon, Logan," she muttered quietly enough that Scott wouldn't hear, "we don't want to give them any more trouble than that one just got them into." The tall one with black hair snorted, his ears apparently either trained enough to pick up what was said, or super-powered as well, Scott couldn't tell.

"Alright, you three," he said loudly, "follow me." He turned and walked towards the elevator, "and you can tell me your names and powers on the way down." Scott studiously ignored the rude comment he half-heard the black haired one make.

"Emily," the girl said. 

"Emily _what_?" he asked pointedly, "and what do you do?"

"Wot's yours, mate?" the black haired one asked sarcastically.

"Scott Summers. I'm also called Cyclops. I'll be in charge during your stay here. I shoot beams of concussive force from my eyes; that's why I wear these glasses. If you value your lives, I suggest you be very careful you don't take them off."

"Bleedin' prig," he muttered.

"And you?" Scott spun around and stared at the other intimidatingly.

"Pete Wisdom, mate." He didn't seem to be intimidated… "Black Air."

Scott raised an eyebrow above the glasses' rim. "And that means your power is…?"

"None o' yer business." And with that, Wisdom clamed up and pulled a cigarette from a pocket.

Hidden behind the red lenses, Scott's eyes narrowed. "And you are now doing…?"

"Lightin' a fag. You got a problem with that?"

"Yes, I do. I expect that while you are under this roof, you will not—"

Wisdom shrugged, "too bad," and lit the cigarette.

Cyclops saw red—well, this time figuratively, not literally—as he stared at the young mutant who offered up an insulting grin around the smoking cigarette. With an infuriated sigh, he turned to the boy. "How about _you_?"

"Jeremy Graves." 

"And what do _you_ do, or are you going to be insolent, too?" Cyclops nearly snarled.

"Take a look at 'is feet, mate," Wisdom interjected, laughing. "'Less you can't see with them things on. O' course, stupidity's another explanation."

Cyclops looked down at the floor to see the young teen's feet floating two inches off the floor. "Oh. Ah…ahem. Right." 

* * *

"This, is the Danger Room," Cyclops stated pompously. The three young mutants looked at each other, exchanging a "look" that all three easily understood. "Here," he continued, "you will learn how to hone your abilities." Pete rolled his eyes; behind the glasses, Scott narrowed his. "Have fun," he said—nearly growled—and walked out, shutting the door behind him with a _whoosh_. The other three looked at each other. Emily's hand clenched into fists as she tried not to tremble, on the verge of a panic attack. Pete was doing his best to appear perfectly calm, standing there smoking with a sardonic look on his face—if anyone could have noticed his antsiness, it would have been Logan, but he and his heightened senses weren't there. Jeremy shuffled from side to side, watching Emily out of the corner of his eye, worried.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, concerned. Emily shook her head from side to side, trying not to stare at the closed door. 

"R'lax, luv," Pete counseled the frightened girl, "if they were gonna kill us we'd already be dead." _I hope_, he didn't add, Black Air training or no.

"Thanks," she forced out bitterly through gritted teeth, "that makes me feel so much better!"

Pete shrugged and blew smoke at the Control Booth, knowing it would annoy Cyclops, who he'd seen enter from the glint of red from the glasses. 

"Uhm…" Jeremy began, hovering anxiously, "I think something's about to—" A large explosion from behind cut him off. Pete leapt sideways, just in case someone had shot at him, but nonetheless managed to be facing the other way before the other two. They saw a large, hulking purple robot walking through the suddenly-appeared front of a shopping center towards them. 

"Holy—" Jeremy started, "what is _that_?"

Pete cursed loudly over Emily's shriek as a cable shot from the robot's had towards her.

"Cease and desist, mutants," the robot announced mechanically.

"It's a Sentinel!" he shouted at the other as he pulled a gun out from somewhere and began firing at the robot, dodging sideways as he shot repeatedly. The bullets sparked, but aside from scratching the paint, did nothing else. "Grab 'er!" he shouted at the gawking flyer, who took off like a rocket, trailing silver sparks. He grabbed Emily who shrieked in pain, and a tug of war resulted—with the Sentinel winning. Pete tracked upwards and shot at the Sentinel's eyes, shattering the left one.

"Optical sensors damaged," the robot reported emotionlessly through its speaker grill.

"What's a…Sentinel?" Jeremy puffed, straining with all his might and speed to pull the writhing Emily from the cable's grip.

"Mutant 'unter," Wisdom shouted back before leaping to his left and rolling away from the Sentinel's near miss. "Bloody gits," he continued, "chase down mutants and capture or kill 'em."

"How do we (ouch!) stop it?" Emily asked in a pained voice, struggling against both the cable and the sparking hands of her would-be rescuer. 

"Uh…" said Pete, dodging yet another blast, "let me think about 'at one, luv."

"Man! Let _go_!" Jeremy yelled, ticked, at the mutant bounty hunter, kicking out angrily at the cable. When his foot connected, a burst of silver electricity traveled up the cable all the way through the Sentinel's arm, which dropped limp to hang like a dead piece of wood from the Sentinel's shoulder-socket. Jeremy hovered, surprised for a moment, then dove to catch the screaming—and falling—Emily a few feet above the metal floor. 

"Out o' the way," Pete commanded, holstering the gun, "move it!"

"Unit's top left extremity disabled. Repairs commencing," the Sentinel announced to whomever really cared. Jeremy flashed down to the floor behind Pete before dropping his panicked and in pain burden, who immediately started cussing him out. Hands free, Wisdom turned to the Sentinel and little slivers of the sun shot from his fingertips to carve through the robot's metal skull, burning, melting, and frying all at the same time. The robot didn't even have a chance to announce it's eminent demise to anyone before it was, well, demised. It smashed into the ground, knocking both Pete and Emily off their feet. Jeremy—still hovering—reached down to help the girl up, and immediately got his head handed to him on a platter for his trouble when a spark shot from his hand to hers. A curse and scream later, and Emily was screaming her lungs out at a confused teen while Pete tried futilely to get their attention.

A gunshot into the ceiling finally served, and he had both staring at him, open-mouthed. "Thank, mates," he muttered sarcastically, checking the ammo in the gun. "Some'ow, blokes, I don't think this is over yet."

"How come," Emily asked, rubbing her hand, "didn't it die?"

"Yeah," Jeremy added, "it sure looks dead to me."

"Right, but it's still there and so are we," Wisdom pointed out. The others nodded, disappointed, following his logic.

"Oh, great…I have a bad feeling about this…"

"You and me both, luv!" Pete shouted as four metal monstrosities crashed through the walls. "Bloody 'ell…" 

Up in the Control Booth, Kitty turned to glare at Cyclops. "What are you doing?"

"I'm seeing how they react under pressure," he replied huffily.

"Scott, c'mon," Bobby interjected from the corner. "They've never faced any of this before." At Scott's glare, he retreated back behind the comic book he'd shielded himself with after Wolverine had threatened to gut Cyclops and had stormed out of the room to mutilate something—probably something belonging to Scott—leaving Kitty and Cyclops to fight it out.

"We need to get a feel for how they act under pressure. And I made sure they would focus more on Wisdom," he added helpfully.

"What!" Kitty exploded, "that is so unfair!"

"He's obviously had experience fighting. And," he reminded her pointedly, "he has a gun." Earlier, _that_ had actually made Cyclops swear…almost. It had also nearly blown the top off the Control Booth when Scott had seen the young Englishman pull out the weapon. Logan's snigger hadn't helped. It would lead to a discussion with Wisdom later. 

"You just don't like him!"

"I'm more professional than that. He was insolent. Besides, I'm in charge."

"Pryde!" the scream as she dropped through the Control Booth into the Danger Room's holographic battle area was ignored, other than Bobby burring his head deeper in the pages of _Star Wars: Rogue Squadron, Requiem for a Rogue_. 

"Alright, uh…Jeremy, take the one on the left; Emily, the one on the right. I'll take the middle one."

"Uh, Pete, doesn't that leave one?"

"Failed math class, did you Pete?" 

"If yer such a bloody genius, you figure it out!" They both clamed up. Pete fired at the nearest Sentinel, left-handed, blowing it's "eyes" out. His right lifted and started to burn, but he couldn't dodge in time, though, when the fifth one emerged from the wall behind him and shot. Jeremy flew at the back-stabber as Emily danced around, trying not to be blasted, succeeding mainly because she hoped onto the nearest one's boot and clung there like a leech. Jeremy pulled out of his arrow-like flight inches away from hitting the wall as everything dissolved, returning the room to its former emptiness, plus one person. She ran over to Wisdom's prone figure as he sat up, rubbing his head and cursing.

"For the first time, that wasn't too bad," Cyclops's voice crackled over the speaker, "but you were all pretty pathetic. Shadowcat, I'd like a word with you later, so hang around. And Wisdom, I want to talk to you. Emily, Graves, you're dismissed. Iceman will show you to some guest rooms."

"I will?" Drake asked in the back of the control booth.

"You will."

"Oh, okay. I will." 

"Good boy." Scott's voice got colder, "Wisdom, don't go anywhere. We have…_things _to discuss."

Pete replied very eloquently with a finger pointed towards the Control Booth and Summers's general direction.

* * *

Cyclops paced around the room, shooting death-glares (only figuratively, not literally) in the young Englishman's direction. "A gun! I can't believe you pulled a gun in there—"

"B'lieve it, Summers. 'ere, want to see it?" He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help but to antagonize the man. He pulled it out—too quickly for Cyclops to see where it came from exactly—and held it carelessly. Summers's face went as red as his shades and Pete would _swear _he saw crimson smoke start to ooze out from under the glasses. "Nice one, ain't it?"

"Put that thing away!" It looked like the bugger was going to have a heart attack. He was too healthy for that, though; too bad. "What do you think you're doing!"

"Nothin, mate. Don't get yer britches in a twist." Pete smiled infuriatingly as he made the gun disappear. 

"While you are in this house, Peter Wisdom, you will respect the rules of it!" Cyclops shouted at him as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. 

After sticking the fag in his mouth, he replied. "'Ey, mate, wosn't me wot had the great idea to come 'ere. And you call me 'Peter' again you'll be wearin' those fancy shades o' yours in yer pocket. _Mate_." 

"And that's another matter! You will stop that habit immediately!" Summers was almost choking, he was so upset. 

"Nice to see a bloke can get you emotional, Summers. So give me one good reason," he said in a voice calm enough to freeze the dead, "why I should." He pointedly blew smoke at the man leaning over him "intimidatingly" scowling.

"If you had any idea of the threats we faced on a daily basis, you would understand that we can't afford to have any of our abilities deteriorated with such—"

"Oh, is 'at it?" Wisdom cut him off. He looked Cyclops up and down evaluatingly. "You can beat me in an 'our-long race or so, I'll stop. You can't, you'll shove it and not bother me again. Got it, _mate_?"

After opening and shutting his mouth once or twice, Cyclops nodded. "Fine. I'll expect you to turn them in at the end of the day." His only reply was Wisdom shaking the ash from the cigarette onto the chair Cyclops had vacated to pace. Before he could frame a reply to _that_, the young Brit was out the door. 

"Dismissed," Scott shouted after him, trying to gain some of his dignity back and failing miserably. He had a feeling that Logan and Wisdom would soon receive the same rating. Maybe. Logan _had _to be worse…didn't he? He _hoped_ so, because the Canadian was as bad as it got!

He touched the button on the intercom, "Shadowcat, you can come in—" she walked through the wall. "—now," he finished lamely. "Young lady," he chided her, "just what did you think you were doing?"

"I was hitting the panic button, _Cyclops_, because _you_ were being a _jerk_," she spat. The fire in her eyes could have rivaled that of the small dragon on her shoulder.

"Danger Room sessions are only over when _I_ say they are—"

"You were acting like an insulted baby! Wisdom and you didn't hit it off because _you_ had a lousy day and behaved badly, so you took it out on them! You could have seriously hurt someone in there! The only reason I didn't hit the darn button in the very beginning was because Wisdom handled things so well!" Lockheed shot a small jet of flame near Scott's head—but did he wink, too? "If you don't grow up, Cyclops, I vote we let _Wolverine _head the team instead of you—or maybe even _Bobby_!" And with that biting insult, the young teen spun on her heal and stalked through the wall, leaving a gasping Scott Summers behind to stutter impotently and prepare for a race he felt certain would end quickly with someone's collapse from asphyxiation.

* * *

Nearly an hour and a half later…

Cyclops was struggling to breath and catch up to Pete Wisdom at the same time. It wasn't going well. Scott had started off at an almost-sprint, figuring the smoker would collapse soon and spare him the need to finish the race. He could almost see the young Englishman in front of him…almost. He had been close enough a few minutes ago, and had caught the impolite one-finger salute Wisdom had given him. He would _not _loose to the insolent little jerk, no matter what. He would _not_ loose.

Around thirty minutes later…

Kitty, Bobby, Wolverine, Jeremy, and Emily were all out on the front porch cheering or laughing as Wisdom breezed in. Scott was nowhere to be seen—for most of them. Logan could see him about a mile away, huffing like a train, stumbling at top-speed through the woods. Pete hadn't counted on an audience; he determined not to allow himself to breathe hard, and slowed his pace, walking casually the last few yards, quietly whistling a rude bar song.

If it wasn't for his healing factor, Wolverine probably would have suffocated himself with laughter. Kitty wasn't much better. Bobby was doing his best not to laugh loudly enough that Scott would hear him, and the two new recruits could sense that they didn't want to get involved in the "war" brewing between the two—yet, at least. Later? definitely. 

Well done, Mr. Wisdom, a voice spoke in Pete's head. 

"Bloody 'ell!" he nearly tripped over the steps. "What the fook was 'at?"

I am Professor Charles Francis Xavier. You are at my school for gifted youngsters. I wanted to congratulate you on your stamina. Might I be so rude as to inquire as to how you accomplished it? I had thought that Scott was in rather better shape.

"Sod off and get the 'ell out o' my 'ead!"

Mr. Wisdom, language, please. As to how I am doing this, I am a telepath. It is my mutant gift to speak and see in the minds of others.

"Then get the fook out of mine!"

I do apologize, the thoughts sounded amused. I have things to attend to; I hope you will not be insulted if I wait to continue this conversation until after dinner? Thank you.

"Bloody 'ell," Pete commented to no one in particular. 

* * *

"Alright, young man," Scott Summers said later, "explain."

"Explain wot?" Pete asked mockingly, lighting a cigarette.

Cyclops glowered but said nothing to that; he'd lost, and he was _not_ going to be a sore looser. "Your…physical condition. You don't seem like the kind that would bother exercising for no reason. And your lungs can_not_ be in the best condition."

A puff of smoke and "Black Air, mate," was the only reply. Wisdom stood up and sauntered out of the room.

"That _idiot_—!"

Half-in and half-out of the wall, the eavesdropping Kitty tried to stifle her laughter in Lockheed's wings. 

* * *

Pete sauntered out, pleased with himself. He sauntered out right into Logan's outstretched arm, which caught his shoulder and pushed him back into the wall. 

"So, Wisdom, talk."

"Bout wot, mate?" Pete didn't bother glaring. He had the feeling that it wouldn't do much good. He was right. Besides, though he'd never let them see it, he felt like he was going to fall over. He'd run as fast and as long as he could, sped on by what he thought of Summers and his refusal to loose to him. Besides, he was _not_ going to quite smoking. It wasn't like he was addicted to it; he just didn't want to. 

"You're endurance, bub."

"Black Air," Wisdom tried to blow off Wolverine the same as he'd done to Cyclops, but it didn't work.

"Cute. So this time, _explain_ it to me." Logan looked him up and down. "And siddown first. I'm impressed, but I'll be more impressed if you don't fall over."

"I never—!" Pete began. "Fine then." He sat. "Black Air—I just got into it, and in the beginning they put you through this conditioning program. It's bloody 'ell, mate. You live through that, you'll survive anything they throw at you. Train you like yer gonna be in the fookin' Olympics they do. Running, counter-surveillance, weights, shooting, intelligence, everything, you name it, they made us do it." Pete shrugged. "'Asn't worn off yet or nuthin, so I figured Summers couldn't beat me worth a fook. Sides, it made 'im back off on me smoking, least fer now."

Logan nodded. "Good enough for me, bub. Sides, Summers may be able to hit alright, but he's nothing on running for a long time."

"Noticed that meself, I did."

"Yeah, sharp number, huh?"

"Sod off. Bleedin git."

* * *

Two days later, in the morning…

Logan knocked on the door to the guest bedroom Pete Wisdom had claimed. He growled and knocked again, harder this time; a slight metallic tang accompanied the rappings from his bones. When there was still no answer, the Canadian shoved the door open—or tried to. Something was stopping it on the other side. Logan snarled deep in his throat and pushed the door open, splintering the chair that had been expertly wedged under the doorknob. 

The lump on the bed didn't stir an inch. _Huh_, thought Logan, _I woulda thought the kid had better instincts than that._ He stalked over to the bed and reached out to yank the covers off. His hand stopped inches from the bed as a sleepy voice issued from under the heap of blankets.

"I wouldn't, were I you, mate," the muffled British accent warned him, heavy with sleep.

Wolverine stood there a moment before he made a realization: Wisdom was still asleep; the response had been an instinctive reaction to the presence of another being in the room. Logan wondered if that was part of the kid's power or if he was just that good. It took some training to be able to do _that_… That led Logan to wonder just what it was the kid had done before being talked out of it to try out Xavier's School for a few days… And _that_ led him to wonder just why the young Englishman had joined the school in the first place… This one would bear watching. Logan was upset with himself. He'd let his enjoyment of Scott's predicament cloud his instincts. Something was up with the Brit, and he aimed to find out what it was. The fact that he'd been fooled didn't endear him to the young mutant. 

"You ain't me," he growled and ripped the blankets off. The bullet would have blown the shoulder off a normal man. As it was, the shot triggered on reflex knocked the surprised mutant on his rear, blood showering the room. The sound of the shot also served to wake Pete, who flew from the bed—gun in his hand, where it had been pointed on reflex at the other person in the room—got tangled in the blankets, and landed in a pile next to Logan. Pete's eyes were almost as wide as his mouth as he gaped in shock.

"Wot 'appened?" he asked quietly, scanning the room for a threat. Only the fact that Kitty arrived just then through the ceiling saved Pete from being eviscerated by Logan's claws. The wound, while annoying, was hardly deadly, and was closing rapidly, leaving only bloodied sheets to show what had happened. That, and Logan's rage. Wolverine had already prepared himself to leap at the Brit, and his flight was stopped only because Shadowcat fell between them. She was phased, and wouldn't have been hurt, but it stopped Logan nonetheless.

"What happened?" Kitty asked, intangible, looking around wildly for the attacker "Dunno," Pete spoke first, "somebody shot the bugger. I was asleep; don't know who. I'll fin the bloke, don't worry luv. Eh…maybe you should call for a medic or somethi—"

Logan roared and leaped through Kitty towards Pete, who had turned away and crouched behind the bed, looking around for someone with a gun who had dared to shoot someone in his bedroom. "Wolvie!" Kitty screamed—that warned Pete that something was happening and he instinctively rolled to the side. Stiff from the open wound—for now—in his shoulder, Wolverine couldn't swing his arm fast enough to catch Wisdom, who spun and pointed the gun at he new threat. His mouth dropped in surprise at where it had come from—and then his eyes hardened.

"Alright, mate, I don't know wot game yer playing but if you move a twitch I'll blow yer bleedin 'ead off." The gun didn't waver from its position dead center between Logan's eyes.

"Ooh, tough guy," he growled, "think that pea-shooter scares me?"

Pete shrugged—and pointed with his free hand at the Canadian's forehead as well. "Wotever ace you've got against a gun, fine by me. Think that ace'll work against an 'ot knife, too?" The young Englishman's hand was glowing, heat emanating from it. 

Wolverine smiled a feral grin, and—the hole in his shoulder almost closed entirely—shifted his weight minisculey, preparing to spring. Whether instincts or training, Pete was good enough to notice the hardly apparent tensing. His hand swiveled to point at the startled Shadowcat standing behind him.

"Go ahead," he smiled at Logan, "try it. I know she's a bleedin ghost; can walk through walls and bullets. But some energy 'urts 'er. And 'aving a piece of the bloody sun in 'er gut might be one of them. Want to take the chance?"

Wolverine snarled impotently, knowing as well as Wisdom apparently did that he would never do anything to risk Kitty's life. 

"What was your angle," he asked from the floor, "why enter Xavier's school?"

"I was sick of Black Air and you asked me. My turn: why'd you attack me? Wot was _yer_ angle for it? Who d' you work for?"

"Nobody but _me_, punk. And I attacked you because you _shot_ me, you little—"

"What?" Kitty asked, not understanding what had happened before she'd entered.

"I wot?" Pete asked incredulously. 

"You shot me, English!"

"I did not! I 'eard a gunshot and I woke up. I wasn't even conscious when you came in 'ere—fer that matter, wot'd you want in 'ere anyway?" Wisdom asked suspiciously.

"I was _comin_' to wake you _up_, and you didn't _move_, so I pulled your _blankets_ off."

"You bleedin idiot!"

Wolverine almost attacked him, hot knives or no hot knives. The growl in his throat was enough to make even Wisdom falter for a moment. 

"I mean you came in 'ere and bleedin _attacked_ me, and I sleep with a bloody gun under my pillow! Of course I'll friggin' shoot you!"

"Why you little…"

Kitty laughed hysterically, falling down half on the bed and sliding to the floor.

Both men turned around and asked in unison, "what's so funny?" (the one in a British accent, of course, the other in a snarl). 

"You two! You both act like you're the toughest thing in town, but don't realize that there might be someone else who's 'tough' too! So you treat each other like you'd treat anybody else, not realizing that you do that the other might act by reflex and actually hurt you! Oh, this is rich!" She paused then, worried. "Logan, you aren't hurt, are you?"

Wolverine snorted. "From a bullet? You're kidding me, pun'kin."

Pete turned and looked at him. "Are you tellin me that I shot you at point blank range in the shoulder and you don't even need a bleedin bandage?"

"Yep," Wolverine replied, flexing his arm, "I don't. Won't, neither. No little pop-gun's gonna hurt me. I got a healing factor, Wisdom. Work's wonders," he smiled feraly at the Englishman, who made the properly impressed response that someone in his profession would.

"No fook!"

"Nope."

"Bleedin jerk."

"Yep."

"Oh, you two! God. I'm going to get some breakfast. Anyone coming?"

"Nope, darlin'. Already ate. Summers Special. Yum," he licked his lips. 

Pete laughed. "I'll take yer up on 'at one, luv. One second," Pete snatched a piece of cloth from the piles strewn across the floor. For only arriving with a suitcase and a carry-on, he had taken remarkably short time to make a complete mess. Logan's trained eye noticed, though, that few things of any import or necessity were out of the bags. Clothes, shoes, cigarettes, ammunition; the Brit probably had at least one extra replacement still packed up. The mess, while huge, was hardly irreplaceable. Pete shrugged into the bathrobe and slipped the gun into the pocket. Wolverine smiled. Cyclops would _love_ it if he saw _that_. Maybe they'd all get lucky and Summers would die of rage. _Ha_. Or maybe he'd get into a fight with Wisdom and get his head blown off. That sounded much more plausible. Actually, a lot more… Hmm…

"Let me get this straight, okay?" she asked as she lead him towards the kitchen.

"Go 'ead, luv."

"You shot Wolverine before you woke up and didn't even know it?"

" 'bout that, yes."  
"Well. Remind me never to wake you up when I'm solid."

"I'd never shoot _you_, luv," he teased.

"_Riiight_. Just like you wouldn't have hit me with those hot knives of yours."

"I wouldn't," he protested honestly.

"Really?"

"Really. It was a bluff, but don't tell anyone that. You'd ruin my reputation."

"But how come—" she wondered curiously.

"I knew he wouldn't risk it that I was telling the truth. He treats you like a daughter."

"Kinda. I mean, not really or anything. He just kinda…adopted me when I became an X-Man. So," she continued, pointing down the right hallway, "how come you trust me enough to tell me that?"

"Well…" Pete paused, "I don't really know. Stupid of me. I'd be drummed out of Black Air for 'at, right quick."

"That's like, the fifth time you've mentioned this 'Black Air' thing. What is it? If I can ask, I mean," she added hurriedly.

"Kind of a paranormal investigative thing. Sort of you CIA mixed with yer crazies out west wot sit in fields waitin fer aliens, 'cept 'at it's real." He knew what the next reaction would be, and really didn't want to get that reaction from her for some reason. But he wanted even less to lie to her—very odd; he'd lie to his own grandmother for a used stick of gum—so he spoke the truth, albeit hurriedly. 

"Oh, wow. Have you ever met any? The Skrulls? Or the Shi'ar? Or the—"

"Wot?" he turned to stare at her. "Wot the 'ell are you talking about?"

"Aliens. Extraterrestrials. Beings from outer space. Ever met Lilandra? She's the Empress Magistrix of the Shi'ar. There're kinda cool—and I never told you this, but she and the Professor are in L-O-V-E."

Pete stared at her for a moment. "You know," he said finally, "I have the oddest feeling that this may be even stranger than wot I did with Black Air…"

"Why'd you quit? I mean, it sounds like it'd be fun, right?" she asked curiously, pulling the orange juice from the refrigerator.

"Uh…not…quite, luv. Some of the things we did in Black Air, well…yer eating. I'll tell you later." She turned form the table with wide eyes and looked at him. "Maybe. If you feel like 'earing 'orror stories. Besides, I was sick of my boss, Scicluna, at Black Air. Thought this might be something better, something that was…I don't know…around to make a difference." Pete stopped, surprised. Why had he just told her this? He'd only met her two days ago. Why was he even telling her what Black Air did, let alone why he'd left it? What did she _do_ to him? He didn't know what was wrong, and Xavier was off somewhere—had said he had things to do in Scotland or somewhere and taken off yesterday—so it couldn't be the bloody prig playing with his head. Could it?

And why, when she looked at him like that, did he feel like he maybe wasn't such a horrible person after all? Was it the trust in her eyes? No; people trusted him. People as bad as he was, usually, but trust nonetheless. You had to; you basically handed them your lives. If you didn't know how far you could trust people, you couldn't work with them. That was why he and Scratch hadn't…gotten along very well. They'd known _exactly_ how far they could trust the other: _nil_. So…what was it? Pete turned away quickly and pulled a mug from the cupboard, pouring himself a cup of coffee. That was it; that was the answer. He wasn't awake yet, that was all. Just sleepiness, that's all. He was fine; perfectly fine. It wasn't anything wrong with him at all. He was just tired. That was it.

* * *

Alone in her room, Emily stood in front of her mirror. She sighed sadly and tossed the blond wig back onto the bed. It just didn't look right. When she tried to cover it up, her hair glowed fluorescent. There was no hiding it at all. No dying it either; the last time she'd tried that her whole face had become tinged with violet. She'd had to hide inside her house for a whole week while she tried to wash it out. She hated her hair. It had caused all manner of trouble with school. 

Weirdo. Freak. Queer. Geek. And many other, even worse names. That was why she'd dropped out; why she'd had to run away. After she had hidden behind a glowing, purple shield when her father had tried to beat her, they'd figured out that she wasn't just dying her hair purple to be rebellious (it had suddenly turned purple one day; before that it had been red) but that she was…

A mutant. A gene-freak. A demon. A devil. A defect. Something wrong. Something that should be destroyed, put out of its misery like a mad dog. She sniffled, trying not to cry. She picked the brown wig up off the floor and pulled it on over her chopped violet locks, pouting at the glow in the mirror. She turned and started cleaning up. No telling how long they would let her stay here. They all seemed nice—well, most of them. The one with the glasses—Scott—had a stick up his butt and the one with the claws—Wolverine—was scary. The others seemed okay; even Pete, usually, though he tried to act like a jerk most of the time. Still, you never could tell. It wouldn't last too long. Once they realized that they couldn't get whatever it was they were trying to get from her, she'd be on the street again, waitressing in "hip" teenage joints where she could get away with purple hair until they or other people began to suspect thighs and she had to go again, finding some other place to scrounge for a few bucks. At least they hadn't asked her for any money or anything yet. And at least she could talk to Bobby without feeling like she was stupid or lying. 

Jeremy was nice, but he knew a lot more than she did. She hadn't had the chance; it wasn't fair. She hadn't gotten the change to learn everything she needed to know before she'd had to leave school. And Kitty; she was the sweetest person she'd ever met, but the girl was a genius! And Pete—okay, he was cute, and he was pretty nice to her, too—Pete was a jerk. A really nice jerk, and one that she looked up to, was glad that he was here to help blunt Scott's attitude, but still a jerk. It was clear that he'd practiced for years to be that big of one. Bobby, though, was a smart-aleck but not a mental giant. And he talked to her like a person—he'd given her a little ice statue yesterday. 

She'd walked into the lounge to see him playing around with his powers, surrounded by little likeness and shapes. After expressing her genuine admiration, he'd offered to give her one. Timidly, she'd asked for one of a unicorn, if he didn't mind. Just a tiny one, not big at all. With a grin and a flourish, he'd "snowed" one right out of the air. He'd told her that it would melt soon, but that he'd make her something else tomorrow if she let him tell her a joke. She'd promised that he could tell her as many jokes as he wanted, but had secreted the statue away in the freezer anyway.

She jumped when she heard the quiet knock on her door, then laughed when she heard the voice. "Hello," Iceman whispered, "are you awake? Can I come in? I you aren't awake, don't bother answering that last one. In fact, don't bother answering any of them if you're asleep."

She'd giggled and pulled the door open, "come on in."

"You're in trouble now, missy," he'd shaken a finger in her direction.

"Oh no! I'm sorry! What did I do now?"

"Relax! You just signed your death warrant, that's all. You promised to let me tell you some of my jokes." He smiled his best evil smile at her and she laughed. 

"Well, in that case I guess I'll meet my doom without any dignity, huh?"

"Yep!" he replied happily, overjoyed that she hadn't kicked him out and told him to tell his lame jokes to a brick wall or Logan's fist. He paused and looked at her. 

"Didn't you used to have purple hair?" he asked curiously. 

"Huh, what? Oh!" she blushed crimson and tore the wig off, tossing in to the floor and kciking it under the bed. "I was just…uhm…wondering what my hair would look like if, you know…uh…"

"Sure, whatever. Hey, I got a really god one! Knock-knock."

"Who'd there?"

"The interrupting cow!"

"The interrupt—" she began.

"Moo!" Bobby shouted, breaking in. She looked at him a moment, then giggled timidly. "Come on," he whined, "I thought that one was great!"

She nodded, "me too. Tell me another one."

"Okay!" He looked like somebody had just told him that he could have a million dollars and a free ticket to a circus. 

"You ever see _Star Wars_?"

"Uh-huh, I remember seeing it wi—"

"Great. Okay: how many Wookiees does it take to change a light bulb?"

"Uhm…I don't know."

"Two. One to hold the light bulb, the other to turn the house around!"

* * *

Kitty Pryde spun in a perfect pirouette, dropped through a deep bend, then raised her arms, pausing for a moment, secure and certain that she had performed perfectly, because there was no one around to say otherwise. She pun again, floating above the boat house's roof, moon and stars glittering above her, reflected back by the dark waters below her. She sighed, then, and sat on the air, legs crossed, her chin in her hands, unable to escape her thoughts or even make sense of them.

The X-Men were dead. She'd cried and cried and cried until there were no tears left, even while she'd done her best to convince herself that it wasn't, couldn't be real, that they were still alive. She'd one her best to put it out of her mind, to not think of that. She had had no choice. If she'd focused on her grief or let the others focus on theirs, well…who knew where they'd be now. The Professor, at least, seemed to have recovered from his utter despair. He was at Muir now, saying that he'd just wanted some time away, to think things through. Moira MacTaggert wouldn't let him slip into desolation again, Kitty knew. She wasn't worried about that…very much. 

Those thoughts weren't the ones troubling her. It had become a numbing ache in the back of her mind, in a corner of her heart, springing up when she least expected that, but while it was completely non-comprehensible, she understood those thoughts, why she had them, what they were about, and, more or less, how to at least cope with them. The pain would never go away, but she could live with pain, even the numbing heart-aching grief that was so fresh in her soul. 

It was other thoughts, thoughts not of grief but of…those thoughts were the ones that she had trouble understanding. They just didn't make sense! She should be home in bed right now; it was almost morning! But instead she was floating above the estate's boathouse, trying to dance her troubles away into the cold night air. 

And failing miserably at it, too. She made a sound of exasperation at herself and floated a bit lower, just in case she lost it. It took concentration to walk on air, and if she lost her concentration she wouldn't have enough time to get it back this close to the ground, so she made sure that she was close enough to the boathouse roof that if she fell it wouldn't hurt. Too much. 

Then she re-arranged her position until she was sitting comfortably on molecules of air and got down to some serious thinking. Or tried to. She giggled—_that wouldn't do at all_, she frowned at herself. _Okay, it _had_ been funny when Pete had told Scott off this afternoon_. The contrast between the two was priceless! Scott, Mr. Boy Scout of America, had looked like he was spitting nails and hellfire, face even redder than his glasses were, and Pete witting there looking oh-so-cool with that cute sardonic look on his face, calmly blowing smoke in Scott's face. Wait a minute. Cute? Did she say cute? Why had she said that? Well, Pete was cute and all, but why—hey, waitaminute! Where did _that_ thought come from?

__

Oh, no, she buried her face in her hands, shaking her head defiantly, trying to shake the thought out. _Oh, no! _No no no no no. She would _not_ develop a crush on Pete Wisdom, she would _not_. That wold just hurt far too much. She would not she would not she would _not_ do that. She didn't know how but she would not let herself do that, she would _not_—

She opened her eyes and tried to think "light" but it was too late; she was on her way down and the roof was coming up fast. She closed her eyes and braced herself t o roll, hopefully not of the roof, still doing her best to think light and knowing it was futile. Instead of hitting the roof and scraping herself all over the shingles, then probably rolling off it to land painfully on the grass and probably a whole bunch of rocks, too, she landed in somebody's arms.

"Thanks, Wolvie," she muttered, embarrassed that he'd seen her loose her concentration, hoping he wouldn't ask over what.

Her heart nearly stopped when the person spoke. "Sorry, luv, 'fraid 'e isn't 'ere right now."

__

Oh, shit, she thought so loudly he had to have heard it. "Oh, um, whoops. Thanks for catching me and stuff. I kinda lost my concentration and fell and thanks." She tried to take a deep breath but realized that she was still in his arms. God, somebody up there hated her alright. 

He raised an eyebrow that she could hardly see in the dark. "You alright, luv?" Oh, god, why did he have to use that word? It was just his cute—there we go again!—accent, but still, oh, why?

"Yeah, thanks." She swallowed, not sure if she wanted him to put her down or not. She didn't get a chance to figure it out before he did, on the edge of the boathouse roof. _Great, Kitty, you almost missed that. Would have really hurt if you'd hit the ground from that high up_. 

He shrugged, a motion heard more than seen in the dark and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, calm, cool, and collected: all the things she wasn't right now. God, she realized, she was standing here in the dark on the boathouse roof, alone, with a guy she seemed to have developed a serious crush on and he didn't even notice. _Does my life bite, or what?_

"So, um, any special reason you're out here this late?"

The flare of the lighter illuminated his face for a moment as he touched it to the cigarette. She hoped he couldn't see hers, because she probably looked like an idiot. She shuffled her feet around on the shingles uncomfortably while she waited for an answer. "That place can get t' be a bit crowded. And Summers told me to go to sleep." Pete snorted, "so I rolled a fag under 'is door and took off."

She giggled—_oh, great, I sound like some infatuated bimbo now. God!_—imagining Scott's reaction to that one. Then he asked her the same question and she nearly died.

"'ow 'bout you, luv?"

He asked it so causally, too. He must not realize that she had a crush, thank god for that. "Oh, uhm, just thinking. You know, about, like, stuff." _Oh _what_ a _great_ cover-up, Kitty! That was _wonderful_! He probably thinks you are _so_ cool, now!_ _Shut up,_ she told the annoying little voice in her head. 

He shrugged in the darkness. "Wotever, luv." She realized then how close he was standing, the cigarette just a small bright spot in the dark surrounding them. She swallowed, quietly thanking every divine being there was that Wisdom wasn't a telepath.

"You fall into people's lives often?" he meant it as a joke, but was there an ulterior meaning to that? Did it mean that she had fallen into _his_ life, that she was part of it? That he wanted her to be part of it? Kitty forced herself to stop analyzing every nuance like a drooling ditz and answer objectively.

"It takes a lot of concentration to float on air. If I don't think about it, I become too heavy and fall. I didn't have time to float again before I…uh…hit."

He nodded, the small spark moving up and down showing her the motion, accepting the answer that wasn't really an answer…maybe? What did that mean? Was he disappointed, happy, did he even care? She was so much younger than he was; he'd probably had tons of girlfriends. Why would he even notice some brown-haired teenager who fell out of the sky and landed on him? Kitty kicked at the shingles, scraping her shoes across them. 

"I'm ah…gonna call it a night…or morning or whatever it is. And thanks for catching me." She turned to go quickly and tripped over the rain gutter. Before she could phase or anything, an arm had caught her around the waist and pulled her back up onto the roof. She blushed furiously. "Thanks again."

"No problem, luv." Why did he have to call her that? His arm was still around her waist as they stood, close together in the darkness, staring at the shadows in front of them…Her heart began to beat more rapidly and her breaths came quicker. Why now, why with him? He didn't even care about her…did he? She hoped so much that it hurt, hoped that he liked her, hoped that…

Wisdom cleared his throat and stepped back. "Careful, luv. Looks like you're gonna kill yerself. 'ere, I'll pretend I'm some kind of bleedin gentl'man and walk you back t' yer room," he smiled laughingly and hoped off the roof. Glad that the darkness hid her flaming face, Kitty floated down and joined him on the dock over the water, stars reflected back at them. "Sides, you get 'urt when I'm out 'ere, yer bleedin 'father' Wolverine'll 'ave 'imself an English snack," he teased. 

"I won't get hurt. I _do_ live here, you know. I think you just needed an excuse that would get you out of having to ask how to get back to the mansion."

"Who, me?" Pete muttered around the cigarette, trying to sound innocent. Kitty laughed.

* * *

The winds over Muir Island were always cold and bitter, and unless there was some type of precipitation to go with them, that was the island's basic climate. Never, though, had they felt so harsh to the man sitting in them. Moira MacTaggert cold tell this from the window of her laboratory, but knew that her friend needed to sort some things out more before she should talk to him. He needed the chance to realize that the Dream was still worthwhile on his own before someone—even someone as trusted an cared for as Moira—tried to tell him so.

So she watched, her own heart aching, as he just sat listlessly and stared at the wind. He listened to the wind closely, trying to stop his thoughts while thinking deeply at the same time. He could hear words whispered by the wind in his ears. _Wonderful, Charles, now the wind speaks to you. Things were fine when you heard "voices" but this is stretching things_. 

Charles Xavier wondered what came after life. There were so many explanations, and he'd believed in a kind and benevolent god all his life, but once again, things were brought home so closely. He'd sometimes wonder if there was one, and sometimes he would wonder what kind, while others he would force himself not to think of that, wanting to believe wholeheartedly in whatever comfort he could derive to mend the pain of his loss. 

The same loss that the wind was whispering in his ears, or maybe in his mind. He could hear his students, those lost recently and those from far too long ago, all no longer here with him, and all a part of a slash cut across his heart every time one of them felt pain, or worse, stopped feeling that pain. 

__

'Professor,' he heard Jean whispering in his mind gently, Jean, who he'd lost so long ago to a power from the cosmos, _'we all love you anyway, Professor. We always knew what the price could be, and we still believe in your Dream. Please, Professor, know that we all still believe.'_

'Mon ami, c'est la vie,' Remy LeBeau informed him laughingly, as if he needed conformation. _'You do, mon ami. You t'ink dat it a bad life right now, but Gambit know better. Life what you make it. Trust me, mon ami, Gambit know both sides of de world.'_

"Professor,' it was Warren, one of his first students now, _'don't get yourself depressed. Come on, I finally look just like everyone else! And you know what? The flying's still fine up here.'_ Warren. Also called _Angel_, up there with the others.

__

'Life stinks sugah,' Rogue drawled, and there were luckily few who knew that like she did, _'so why dontcha make it better for someone? Like ya did with me—with us? Ah'm thankful for it.'_

'C'mon, Charles,' the crisp British accent of the Asian telepath bit through his head, _'why should you sit around moping? You always did way too much thinking like that; get off it and _do_ something!'_ He had to smile at the impatientness he could hear from Betsy, so much like when she'd been alive.

__

'Herr Xavier,' the demon with the soul and heart of more than a hero, _'why do you sadden your heart? We are free, Mein Herr, but not everyone else is. Give them a chance too, nich warr?'_

'Charles,' he could hear his beautiful windrider, _'Charles, what are you doing here? Your new X-Men need you, Charles. Go to them. We know your love for us, Charles, but they do not. Show them, please, Charles. They need you, as we did once, and as the world needs your Dream.'_

He knew Ororo was right; she usually was. He knew that the others were as well. Xavier wasn't certain if he'd really heard them, or if his mind had just imagined it, or if it were some combination of the two; perhaps a ruse or Moira's, or someone mentally playing a little game. It didn't really matter, did it? It was just what his X-Men would have told him had they seen him like this, after what had happened. He whispered a goodbye to the waves and promised his students that he would never fail them; that the Dream would never die until the rest of the world woke up and realized it as truth. He promised that he would do better than he had done, that he would fulfil their trust, and be worthy of it and their love.

Moira MacTaggert whispered a prayer of thanks when she saw the Shi'ar hoverchair turn away from the waves and start back towards her facility on Muir; when she saw the sad, loving smile hanging like a ghost on the lips of Professor Charles Xavier, a smile like that of someone in a Dream.

"Moira," he spoke calmly but not in the deadened, emotionless voice he had earlier, "thank you. I must return to my X-Men now. They need my help and guidance. And the new ones need to hear about the Dream."


	2. Powers

****

New Dreams

SUMMARY: Most of the X-Men are killed in a horrible battle. Trying to convince the depressed Professor Xavier that the Dream still has merit, the few that are left gather a few new trainees—and one of them's Pete Wisdom! Convincing a young Pete Wisdom that he should give up a new, interesting career with Black Air to join a band of super-hero idealistic misfits is enough to let anyone, especially Xavier, know that the Dream still matters. But knowing how well Wisdom gets along with people, will their be more corpses to add to the numbers? 

****

DISCLAIMER: Me own nothing. Me making no money. You no sue me. We get along fine. D'accord? Entendu. Merci! So read already!

****

PART TWO

* * *

Jeremy Graves bit his lips, hovering, trying to pull the silvery sparks in, in, _in_…where they couldn't hurt anyone…where he could control them…he could fly without sparking, he could he _could_…

"Okay…I'm ready…Begin," he told the computer. A hologram of a kid appeared in front of him. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out a hand and touched the three-dimensional image…_Zap!_ A large spark leapt from his hand to the kid's shoulder. A holographic pie-graph appeared, red coloring about an eighth of it. Jeremy frowned and tried again. 

This time the zap was even bigger—almost a third of the graph was red now. Jeremy was almost ready to cry—but he could do this, he _had_ to! He'd stung Emily when he'd tried to carry her away from the Sentinels, and her hands had been all scorched. He didn't want to hurt anyone—none of them! He didn't, he _didn't_! 

__

Zap! The child disappeared and the graph blinked red at him before it, too, faded. 

Jeremy sat down on the floor of the Danger Room and began to cry. 

He started when a hand touched his shoulder. "'Ey, mate, wot's the problem 'ere?"

"Pete," Jeremy snuffled, not wanting to cry in front of the older Englishman, "hi. Um, nothing. W-why?"

"Right. And I'm bloody Elizabeth. If 'nothin' were wrong, then you wouldn't be sittin' in this bleedin' tin box like this." Pete was not know for his tact, by far, but he wasn't going to say the "cry" word if Jeremy didn't.

"It's just…I was working on my power, that's all, and it didn't work right."

"Still sparkin, then?"

"Yeah," Jeremy replied dejectedly.

Pete nodded sympathetically. "It'll fix itself."

"Sure it will." 

Pete raised an eyebrow. "Shoulda seen me when I got mine."

"Oh?" Jeremy asked, not really interested, though curious in spite of himself. "Right. You picked it right up, I'll bet. Don't lie to make me feel better."

Pete shook his head. "No way, mate. First time I got the bleedin bright idea ter light a cig with one of me 'hot knives' I near blew me own 'ead off—woulda, too, if I could do that t' meself. Burned up about five packages 'till I figured it out. Cost me sumthin, too, cause I just kept at it for almost two days till I finally got it right."

"But you did."

"Only cause I'm a stubborn son of a bitch. I wanted a fag, and I wasn't going to get me lighter out. I was gonna get it with an 'hot knife' er dye tryin. You'll get it too."

"Really, you think?" Jeremy finally looked up at him.

"Sure thing, mate. Keep workin' on it, sparkler, it'll come around."

"Thanks, Pete."

Wisdom shrugged. "Wot for?" he said and walked away.

Jeremy looked up at the empty room and narrowed his eyes. He even managed a smile as he stood up. "Computer—begin session again," he told it. The hologram appeared in front of him…

Up in the control booth, Kitty sat, surprised. She'd seen Jeremy was alone, and had come in. She'd seen him try to control his power and zap the hologram. And she'd seen him cry. She'd been about to go down and try to comfort him, but then Pete had come in. She'd _really_ been about to go down then, because she figured that Pete wouldn't make it better—she might possibly just happen to maybe have a little bit of a crush on him, but she also knew he wasn't a nice, sympathetic person, and she didn't want him to make things worse. But then he'd been…nice. Kitty blinked a few times. _Maybe…it's _all_ an act, not just some of it_, she realized. _But then…if he's that good an actor…maybe…maybe? _

Aw, c'mon, girl, who are you kidding? He's, like, ten years_ older than you! You're a _baby_ next to him! If he's nice to you, it's probably because he thinks of you as a little sister! A little friend at best, a kid! Darn it. _

* * *
    
    Early morning…
    Pete walked quickly in the chill morning air. He really wasn't a morning person. And he didn't like pointless exercise all that much. And he'd really rather be back in his warm bed than out here, hiding from the morning in his trench coat. It was new—less than two months old—but it already looked like it had been around three lifetimes. He was out here, walking like this, because he couldn't sleep. It wasn't a problem he normally had, especially over something that wasn't gory, horrible, and awfully evil.
    Oh, sure, he'd spent sleepless nights before, but usually in the Crown pub (where they didn't care if you were smashed, underage, sane or not) with his…if not really friends than at least comrades. After a particularly nasty mission—Pete didn't even want to think about remembering the last two things he'd done for Black Air, especially because he knew that he'd end up doing a lot worse later. Scratch had told him so, quite colorfully, in all the horrific Technicolor.
    But Pete had never, _ever_ spent a sleepless night because of a _girl_. Dreams, fantasies, whatever, every male creature in the world had those. But not be able to sleep at all? _Mate_, Wisdom told himself mercilessly, _yer gone_. _And over some bleeding Yankee super-hero teen, too_. _If I weren't so pathetic, I'd laugh_.
    Pete stubbed his cigarette out and lit another one. _Chain-smoking this early, then?_ He asked himself mercilessly. _Like there's a bleedin' problem with it…Not like it'll kill me. Somethin' else'll do that first._ He kept walking, dragging on the cigarette, trying to clear his thoughts out and yet at the same time hoping that they would remain foggy—he wasn't sure he wanted to know what they were…
    "Fookin a!" he cried a few minutes later when he bumped smack into Kitty Pryde. She'd stepped right out of a tree and straight through him.
    "Ohmigosh! Are you okay?"
    "Right fine I am, just an 'eart attack, and 'ow are you then, luv?"
    "Um, good, thanks. Sorry about that. I didn't mean to startle you." She shifted back and forth—anxious to get away from him probably, Pete figured. "So, um, what brings you out here? I mean, after the way you reacted when Logan woke you up, I'da thought you weren't exactly a morning person." She smiled at him and he hoped he kept his cool well enough that she couldn't see his heart skip a beat.
    "Nah, luv, not quite." He grinned at her, covering the turmoil in his chest cavalierly. "Didn't feel like sleepin, so I figured I might as well have a fag where Summers can't razz me about it."
    Kitty giggled, "yeah, really. He's such a stick in the mud, isn't he? Sorry; he's always been like that. Could be worse. You aren't Logan, at least. Those two _really_ don't like each other."
    "Well, I wasn't quite gonna put it in the mud, but he sure 'as a stick, don't he then?"
    A laugh burst out of Kitty before she could help it. "Pete! Oh my gosh, that's so evil!" But she laughed anyway. Of course, just the mention of Summers's name probably did that to people, Wisdom figured.
    He shrugged. "Yeah, well, 'case no one's mentioned it to you yet, luv, so am I." He waggled his eyebrows wickedly and got another giggle from her.
    Excuse me—ah, so there you two are. Hello Mr. Wisdom, Kitty. I have returned, and I was hoping that the both of you wouldn't mind coming in to join us for breakfast, unless you've already done so?
    "No problem, Professor. I'll be right there. How about you, Pete?"
    "I'll finish me fag first. That way I can light a new one in front of Summers and start me day off on the right foot."
    "Okay. Well…I see you later, then…"
    "Right, luv." Wisdom turned away and continued with his cigarette, hoping she'd just leave, quickly, before he screwed up somehow. His "acting" talents weren't exactly at their best when he was asleep on his feet, as he'd learned in Germany much to his chagrin.
    "Yeah, bye…"
    _Well_, Professor Xavier thought to himself as he removed his mind from theirs. _Isn't this an interesting turn of events…Who would have ever expected Peter Wisdom to do _that_? I am gratified, however, that my suspicions about his true character proved correct. Thank god we got to him before that Black Air place—and Michelle Scicluna—had eliminated all his good qualities. We simply have to bring them back to the front. Quite surprising that Kitty could see that beneath his image. She's much more insightful than I'd given her credit for.
    But I doubt that Logan will find that a good thing…Ah, well, as Remy would say, we play the cards we are dealt, and just hope that we know what game it is…
    _* * *
    Emily tossed her shirt off and picked up the blue one on the floor. She pulled it over her head and turned in front of the mirror. No, that wouldn't work. She'd forgotten; she couldn't wear this one most days. It usually clashed with her hair. She sighed. Man, normal people didn't have to go through stuff like this. They had brown, or black, or blonde, or red hair. Things that people made clothes to match with—_not_ purple. And worse, _glowing _purple with a mind of its own. She pulled the blue shirt off and sat on the bed in her bra. She pouted at the mirror. Why her? It wasn't like she'd asked to look weird. Besides, none of the other mutants here were that strange. Oh, sure, Mr. Summers had to wear red glasses, but that was "in" now; Logan had demented hair that grew like crazy, but he was a guy, and an old, tough one at that. He didn't worry about how he looked, and nobody else did, either. Jeremy looked normal except when he was shooting sparks; Bobby looked normal except when he was icing something (and even then, depending, he could do it behind his back with no one noticing); Kitty looked normal…except when she was, like, half in and half out of something solid or floating above you; the Professor looked normal; Pete looked normal except when he was shooting fire out of his hands…It just wasn't fair. Why her? Why did she have to be the one to get the glowing eyes and hair? She couldn't even hide them with sunglasses—they just glowed brighter and showed through. Wait…Bobby had said that he'd known another person with purple hair. Maybe she'd figured out how to deal with this? Or maybe it hadn't glowed and she could just dye it…
    Emily sighed. Why did life have to suck like this? She hadn't meant to do whatever it was that had cursed her like this, really she hadn't…so why did it have to be her that got stuck with the bummer hand?
    Excuse me, Emily? a voice said inside her head. Her eyed went wide.
    "What…who…how…"
    Relax, Emily. This is Professor Xavier. I am using my telepathic gifts to contact you. I was wondering if you would join us for breakfast this morning? I realize it is early, but I just returned from Muir, and wanted to speak with you all.
    "Uhm…no problem…sir…I'll, uh…be right there…" _Oh great, here it comes. Now they ask for whatever it is they want—money, information, who knows, and when they find out I can't help them I have to go again…and they were all so nice, too…_But they always were, at first. Then things changed. She'd wished that it wouldn't happen so soon. She liked this place. She didn't feel quite so…weird…all the time…so out of place. _Darn it. Why can't things work for my, just once in my whole frikin life?
    _The Professor felt the quiet despair, the impotent anger, hidden behind the thoughts he hadn't meant to overhear. It saddened him that a child could have to go through so much. _Not another poor tortured soul like Rogue, please. She had such a difficult time…Please, don't let Emily be "abandoned" too…Let her trust us and be happy…
    _But Xavier knew that prayers alone would accomplish nothing. He would have to teach the girl to trust again, to be happy again…to teach her to live again, free. It was a hard road, but one that he had traveled before and would no doubt do so again. He just hoped he could always help them back into the land of the living…
    * * *
    Xavier looked around the breakfast table. He noticed that the extra leaves were gone. Logan, Scott, Bobby, Kitty or some combination of the four must have removed them to spare memories. But that just made the room look empty. And he knew each and every one of the ghosts that should have sat there. His students, his friends, his _children_. He could see all their faces, looking towards him with their own personal emotions, hovering just out of sight. He blinked, and the vision changed to the so many fewer that sat there now. Scott and Bobby, two of his first students, his first X-Men. Was it luck that they'd survived, or did luck not even come into the equation? Logan and Kitty—one so old and tormented, the other young and hopeful. And past them, one younger and more hopeful yet, little Jeremy Graves. He'd seen some bad in the world, but didn't really understand it yet. And beyond, Emily Jones, though she hadn't told them her last name yet. For her own protection, maybe? She knew a lot about the dark side of life, though she hadn't really lived all that much of it yet. And then Peter Wisdom—there was a character all right. Xavier wasn't sure what to make of the young man—why was he here, and how in the _world_ had his X-Men gotten him to come? He kept his thoughts closely guarded, and the professor wasn't one to pry. As the man known as the "greatest mind on the planet," however, he could sense _some_thing about him; the young man actually had a good heart and soul that he worked desperately to keep hidden and buried beneath the darker attitude he did his best to affect. If young Wisdom wasn't careful, he could wind up turning into what he strove so hard to seem—cold, heartless, violent, and vicious.

Wisdom raised an eyebrow, seeing he was being scrutinized. Xavier allowed a slight smile to grace his lips at the young man's loud thought directed towards him: _Mind reader, 'ey? Well, you can ruddy well sod off than, old codger. You gonna sit there and stare at the lot of us, or are you gonna start yer bleedin' speech so we can eat already? And don't even bloody pretend you can't hear me. _

_Language, Mr. Wisdom, really. And patience; it's a virtue,_ he silently counseled the Englishman.

_Well, now you know why I ain't got it then, 'ey?_ Xavier didn't bother to reply to him. Instead, he took his…"advice" and began his "bleeding speech" that was the reason for the large breakfast in the first place. "As you all know, this is the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters—"

"No bleedin' fook, is it really?" Pete muttered. Xavier swallowed the smile that threatened to surface when Kitty kicked him under the table and actually received a contrite look of apology from the cynical Brit.

"Ahem. As I was saying. This is the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters—Mr. Wisdom, I obviously do _not_ mean 'gifted' as in 'intelligent'—you are here, after all."

"I didn't bloody say nothin!" he protested, more to Kitty than anyone else.

"I _am_ a telepath; while you keep your mind well shielded, at times you can be quite…voluble in your comments, both audible and mental. Now, if I may continue?"

"I'm not stoppin' you—you don't wanna stop, don't bloody listen in on me thoughts." Then Kitty pouted at him, and he immediately seemed to regret his cross words. The professor, the only one aware of the exchange, cleared his throat to cover his humor. 

"Thank you," he continued dryly, "this is a school for extraordinarily gifted individuals—namely, _mutants_, those beings with an extra gene in their DNA that gifts them with abilities beyond normal comprehension and capability. You all have these abilities, as you know—some to your benefit, and some, apparently, to your detriment. However, I believe that you can, and should, use those abilities for the betterment of all mankind." He sensed a thought train, and followed up on it. "No, you may not be _homo sapien_ but you _are_ all a part of mankind. The earth is filled with many diverse species and races—you are merely one of those races living on this small planet, and we all are responsible for the fate and security of each and every one of those creatures. Not only that—but for a Dream of peaceful co-existence between the two sentient races on this planet. Humans and mutants can get along, in peace and in friendship. All they need is a protector, and a nudge in the right direction. That is what the X-Men are here for, to stand for something better, and to protect the rest of the world from those who do not. There are dangerous people out there, mutants who believe that they should _rule_, and will use anything it takes to get there. _Magneto; _the _Brotherhood_; _Apocalypse_; _Mystique_; _Sinister_; the _Hellfire Club_—some names you have heard, some names you have not. But all are out there, and all are evil, dangerous, and very, very real." Xavier wondered if any of the three children sitting at the table had had unfortunate run-ins with any of the villains he named; Wisdom went a slight bit pale—paler than usual—when he mentioned the Hellfire Club. He'd have to follow up on that later…

"And very, very deadly." Xavier's calm face looked as if it were etched in stone. "This is dangerous—more so than you know. Many, far, far too many, have already paid the price of making this dream a reality with their lives—and some with their souls. I do not want to frighten you, but I must warn you: this is a dangerous world, and it is all too possible that—"

"Is it really? Wot a soddin' surprise. Listen, Xavier—sorry, _Professor_ Xavier—the world ain't no place of sunshine and happiness, and in case it never occurred to you, we're all well aware o' this. So skip yer bloody 'pep talk' and get on with this little drama, right then?"

"Pete Wisdom!" Kitty half stood in her seat, agape. "I cannot believe—oh my god, what is your problem? Why don't you just get off of this stupid old 'the world is a horrible place, there's really nasty people, I know all about it,' stupid old high horse! You are so _full_ of it sometimes!" Kitty glared furiously across the table at the bewildered Brit. 

"Well—I wasn't—I just meant that he didn't—waste time tellin us wot we already knew—it's not like—" he stammered, not sure of what particular blunder he'd made, only knowing that it had been a bad one to bring the young teen down so hard on his black-haired head. 

Xavier smiled benignly, "you'll have to forgive Katherine. She can be a bit…high strung at times. You hit a slight nerve there. And Kitty—relax. No offense was meant, and none taken, I assure you." She pouted and tried not to blush. "Oh—and you may begin eating. After all, we wouldn't want this to get cold, would we?" He watched as his students busied themselves with the display in front of them, Pete and Kitty doing there best to concentrate solely on the food and ignore the other. _Oh, my_, he thought to himself, this_ is going to be interesting…As if it weren't enough to attempt to battle their inner demons with them, train them, turn them into a team, and then turn the _X-Men_ back into a team again, I have to worry about a proud, lovesick teenager and a cynical, self-conscious spy…_ He smiled slightly to himself. _Well, at least I know that villains or no villains, my life will never be boring, by far…_
    
    * * *
    _Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid_,_ Kitty shouted at herself mentally. _Why did you blow up at him like that? He probably hates you now! I mean, would you rather have him not know you exist, or hate your guts? Do _normal_ teenagers have to go through this?
    No,_ she told herself, normal_ teenagers don't _meet_ spies from England. _She sighed and leaned back against the wall.
    "'Lo, Kit."
    "Pete!" she jumped up. "Um, hi."
    "Listen, luv—" _Why does he call me that? _she thought to herself. "—I, uh, wanted to apologize fer the scene at breakfast."
    "Oh…uhm, yeah. Me, too…I'm sorry. I got kinda…I mean…I didn't mean to, like, jump on you like that or anything…um…"
    They were silent for a moment.
    "Is your shin okay?" she asked then.
    "Huh? Is wot? –Oh, fer gossakes, luv!"
    Her brandy-brown eyes of gold went wide. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you!"
    "Wot? No, that's not what—'ell, I've kicked meself harder 'an 'at! I didn' hardly bloody notice! Wouldn't of even remembered, 'cept you brought it up, grasshopper, don't bloody worry yerself."
    _Oh great, _Kitty thought, _he forgot you kicked him so you went and _reminded_ him? Arrgh, girl, you are so _stupid_ sometimes! And they said you were a genius? Ha! Riiiiight. Wouldn't be saying that now, that's for sure!_
    "I, uh…I was kinda hopin you'd let me make it up to you." He shifted his feet, doing his bloody best to appear calm, cool, at ease. Luckily, Kitty didn't notice that he was failing miserably. "Um, I heard from the old codger—Logan—that there's a pub nearby, 'arry's 'ideaway or sumthin…I was wonderin if you wanted to stop in and have a drink er somethin, bite to eat, wotever."
    Kitty blinked a few times. _Is he asking me—darn it, I wish he was. I wish he was asking my to go there because he _liked_ me, not because he feels _sorry_. Darn, darn, darn, darn, _darn! "Um, yeah," she found herself saying, "I'd love to."
    "Great!" _Calm down you useless toerag! You sound like a bloody school boy asking someone on a date! Like she'd bloody say yes if you did _that_?_ Pete cursed at himself." Wonderful, then, luv. Any special time you want'a go, then?"
    "Um…no, uh, I mean, like, whenever you—um, yeah."
    "Right then. Uh—" Before either one could dig themselves into an even deeper embarrassment (regardless of the fact that the other wouldn't notice it), Scott Summers strode up to the two, "duty" blazing in his ruby glasses.
    "Wisdom, you have a training session. Right now."
    "Says 'oo, one eye? Checked yer bleedin' schedule meself I did, and there ain't nothin there."
    "The schedule has been altered. The Professor would like to see how you—and the other two recruits—work. Hurry up and get changed. He's waiting and the others are there already."
    Pete debated whether it would be worth it to argue about the sudden change of plans, then decided to save it for later when Kit—when Pryde wasn't around, and he wouldn't feel bad about using his nastiest London-gutter-learned lingo. Better to focus on a different argument now instead. "Change into wot, mate?" he raised an eyebrow.
    "Your _uniform_," Scott's voice spoke like grating doom.
    "You mean those bloody spandex body condoms the lot of you wear? Thanks, mate, no."
    "You _will_ wear a uniform for this session."
    "Why so upset, Summers? Didn't know you were so anxious to see me in one of them."
    Cyclops's face went crimson with anger. "Go put on a uniform, Wisdom. I've put up with your insubordination long enough. Now that you are more adjusted to your situation here, I expect you to comply with the rules—and that includes wearing uniforms in training sessions. The professor will not stand for having you—"
    "Oh is that it, 'ey? You want t' show the lot of us off to the old codger? Sorry, mate, I'll just head down t' the Danger Room now. Your 'master' don't like me togs, he can tell me so himself. And I don't care a bloody…" he glanced at Kitty and changed his word "damn about wot he thinks of you or yer training abilities or wotever. I ain't wearin one; you got a problem with that, you can sod off."
    "Listen, Wisdom," Scott began.
    "Scott," spoke up Kitty, "it's not like you _have_ to wear one. The professor probably won't even care. Besides, you said everybody's already waiting. Do you want to make Professor Xavier wait even longer?"
    Cyclops turned to look at Kitty, agape that she would take this new and troublesome recruit's side over his—he, the X-Men's field leader. He was in charge here—before he could frame a reply, Wisdom was already heading to the Danger Room, snickering quietly at the expression on the man's face.
    * * *
    "Ah, Scott," the Professor didn't have to turn around to tell when his student entered the room, "you're here, good. You're late; is there a problem?"
    "Um, no, sir, I was just, uh…gathering the recruits. Um…you know, because it was rather impromptu, and, uh—"
    "Excellent," Xavier interrupted, taking pity on the young man. "Are they all here now, and prepared to begin?"
    _They better be_, Scott thought darkly, then tried to cover it—just in case Xavier had overheard—had he overheard? It didn't look like it, but—"They should be, sir. I just sent them down here myself."
    The professor wasn't sure is he wanted to roll his eyes or smile and shake his head, so he suppressed either reaction. "Very well then. We may begin whenever you are ready."
    Scott nodded and moved forward to the control panel to begin the training session…
    * * *
    Emily and Jeremy jumped and spun around when Pete sauntered in wearing his rumpled black suit. They blue and gold traditional "trainee" uniforms clashed slightly with Emily's hair, making her even more self-conscious than usual, although Jeremy looked merely uncomfortable in the odd outfit, so different from the baggy clothes he traditionally wore.
    "Well," said Emily gloomily, "here we go again. I hope it isn't those nasty robots this time…"
    They had all trained in the Danger Room separately, working on their personal skills, but this was the first time they were going to work together again since the first time, when Cyclops suckered them with the Sentinel cadre. And all three were nervous that it would be something like that again, although they all tried to hid it, with varying degrees of success. Emily was standing on her toes, ready to bolt; Jeremy was hovering anxiously, sparks shooting out despite his attempts to pull them inward; Wisdom was scanning the room carefully, but didn't look nervous or worried—just prepared for whatever was going to come.
    "I hope they don't come all at once and sucker punch us like that again," Jeremy added.
    Pete snorted. "Don't worry 'bout that, mates. The bleedin' skinhead's up there with Summers, so he won't want t' let his emotions run away with him. _Doesn't_ mean he won't throw us the loop, though," the cynical Brit warned his companions.
    "So, 'ey—wot _do_ you lot do? I got you mostly figured, Graves, but wot's yer thing, gel? Some kind o' glow, but that's all I know." Pete wanted to get a better handle on what the two young mutants could do before they were attacked. He was kicking himself for not watching their sessions, but he hadn't planned on being tossed in here again so soon.
    "Uhm." Emily looked like she was ready to panic and race from the room instead of answering Pete's question. "I—I—I mean—um—"
    "'Ey, r'lax, luv, I ain't tryin ta interrogate ya, I just want ta know wot you can do in 'ere, that's all. Good thing ta know wot you lot can manage, it is." He tried to reassure her as best he could, but sympathy or understanding weren't his strong suit—he traditionally "reassured" people by insulting them, the danger, or their fears, not _soothingly_.
    "Y-y-yeah," she stuttered, "I mean, I…well, I c—"
    Before the nervous girl had managed to stutter out a reply, the Danger Room woke up.
    The floor shifted and elevated in spots, changing the terrain into heights and pillars around them, and more platforms irised out of the walls smoothly. The three spun around, searching for the threat in this moving machinery. Behind them, a shiny metal robot started stalking towards them. Pete might have noticed it, if the floor hadn't already been shaking from the movement and if it hadn't drowned it out. Emily looked right at it, but was so panicked she didn't realize what she'd seen. Jeremy, hovering almost two feet above the floor and leaking sparkling silver, spun and saw it just as it reached back an arm to attack. He screamed hoarsely and sent silver streams at it. The robot toppled backwards, reeling, as the others turned to face the threat.
    Pete caught a lighter flash of silver against the dark metal moving into a platform above him and fired a hotknife at it. "One up there, too, mates!" he yelled over the grinding noises of the Danger Room orientating itself for the combat.
    "There's another!" shrieked Emily, pointing to the right.
    "And here I thought Summers would mind 'is manners in front of 'is bleedin 'master' and all. Shoulda known not ta count on that. Stupid mistake, bloody amateur," Pete muttered to himself as he pointed a hotknife in the general direction of an oncoming robot a level above them, then grabbed Emily's arm and half-pulled half-dragged her to the side as he scrambled out of the way of its return blast of light energy.
    Emily, not as used to combat situations, didn't move fast enough, and screamed as the blast hit its target—and stopped short by a few centimeters at the opaque purple shield that was suddenly there and suddenly gone. Pete's eyebrows shot up. "Nice."
    "What?" she yelled back, fighting tears and panic.
    "I said 'nice'!"
    "What?" she screamed back.
    "Up there!" Pete pointed to the robot that had shot at them. "Get that one! I'll help Graves and we'll take the other lot!"
    "But—but—but—" he was gone before she could protest and more than stutters. "But I don't know how to! It only works sometimes!" she wailed.
    Jeremy was trying to dodge the light energy that had already "scorched" him twice and still strike out at the recovered robot he'd zapped in the beginning. From out of nowhere, a metallic fist half-caught his shoulder and tossed him to the metal platform. Before Jeremy's eyes had had time to do anything more than widen, the robot toppled backwards away from him as a blurred black shape slammed into it. Jeremy leapt to his feet as Pete tried to scramble away from the robot he'd blindsided, but he got twisted up in the wires that Jeremy had exposed with his attacks. The robot caught him by the collar and held him out at arm's length. Pete twisted and struggled, but a robot doesn't have the pressure points and weak spots that a human wrist does, and he couldn't break free. He tried to hit it with a hotknife, but he couldn't see his target, so the damage he inflicted was little more than black streaks across its shiny exterior. The robot's other hand _whirred_ over and began to close it's fingers to engage a full-strength light blast when it suddenly stiffened as if electrocuted. Jeremy clung like a leach to the exposed wires. The coursing spark-energy was enough to short out the robot's circuits temporarily and Pete yanked himself free. He landed on his feet and spun, shoving a large hotknife right above the area that Jeremy was sparking, between the robot's guts and wires. It toppled over, smoking, and all its little lights went out. With a hotknife, Pete sliced open its cerebral casing and pointed to Jeremy. The younger mutant got the idea and, with a steady stream of silver, blew all the circuitry within the machine.
    Before any congratulations could be offered, a scream, a small explosion, and a light blast right between them interrupted. Pete cursed in some indecipherable language, and Jeremy yelped. They found the source of their attacker, and, while a few sparks and flames offered cover, Pete shouted a plan to Jeremy, who nodded earnestly.
    "Right then, sparkler?"
    "Gotcha, Pete!"
    Taking off as fast as he could, Jeremy barreled towards the robot, twirling to avoid its random blasts while hotknives—around its ankles, well below Jeremy's flight—kept it occupied in two places at once. He slammed, sparking, into the robot, and the force shoved it off the high platform. Jeremy pulled up on his own power, grinning—a grin that quickly turned into wide eyes surprise when he felt the metal fingers latched around his ankle. For a moment, they both hung oddly suspended, like a cartoon character over a cliff on Saturday morning. Then, gravity and the weight of the robot took over, and both boy and machine went plummeting. A spike of flame shot over and severed the robot's arm at the wrist, freeing Jeremy. He couldn't stop in time, however, and a scream of fear escaped him before he suddenly found himself encased in opaque purple. The robot hit the ground and shattered as the purple slowly dissolved.
    Emily, hair and eyes glowing brightly, stood next to the remains of a crushed, exploded robot. Her face was screwed up in concentration, and she was biting her lip hard enough to draw a faint droplet of blood from it. Her right hand was outstretched, trembling, at Jeremy. Her knees buckled and she fell, in slow motion, to a seated position on the platform as it began to descend. Jeremy dropped a few feet as the purple force field dissolved, then sparked over to Emily who looked exhausted. The platform descended back into the ground as Pete hopped over to examine the destroyed robot (and make sure that Emily was alight, although he wouldn't let anyone think that was a reason). Jeremy landed, grinning broadly.

"Hey, we did it! We _did _it!" he crowed triumphantly, as the Professor's pleased voice came over the PA system to announce how well they did and critique their performance…


	3. Goodnight

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New Dreams

SUMMARY: Most of the X-Men are killed in a horrible battle. Trying to convince the depressed Professor Xavier that the Dream still has merit, the few that are left gather a few new trainees—and one of them's Pete Wisdom! Convincing a young Pete Wisdom that he should give up a new, interesting career with Black Air to join a band of super-hero idealistic misfits is enough to let anyone, especially Xavier, know that the Dream still matters. But knowing how well Wisdom gets along with people, will their be more corpses to add to the numbers? 

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DISCLAIMER: Me own nothing. Me making no money. You no sue me. We get along fine. D'accord? Entendu. Merci! So read already!

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PART THREE

* * *
    
    
    They had all—minus Scott, who claimed he had "work" to do, and the Professor, who wanted to let the "children" all relax, and who _did _have work to do—gone to Harry's Hideaway for a celebration—non-alcoholic, _of_ _course_, for everyone but Logan and Pete. Bobby had hardly stopped slapping hands and laughing and congratulating them since they'd arrived.
    "I tell you, that was priceless! I mean, wowee, buddy! You guys are so getting great! We'll probably be training all together as a team by tomorrow! And Emily, if I didn't tell you yet, that was _so cool _when you just crushed it! Shoulda _seen _Scott's jaw _hit _the floor! And Jer—man oh man almighty, that…"
    While the exuberant Bobby Drake was busy making Emily blush and Jeremy's head expand to fill the room, Pete slipped away to avoid any similar treatment. He stood in his usual place. Every pub—or bar as the states called them—had them: the dark, shadowy ones, the smoky recesses where you just became another shadow. He watched the place instinctively, cataloguing and assessing everyone without seeming to look around him at all as he nursed his scotch. Somehow, though, Kitty Pryde managed to sneak up on him, although his training kept any surprise off his face (he hoped).
    "Hi."
    "'Lo, luv." Pete swallowed so loudly that she must have heard it. He cleared his throat, mouth suddenly dry. "So, uh…how're you then?"
    "Oh! Oh, I'm good. I mean, yeah. Fine. Um. How are you?"
    "Right. Fine." Pete noticed he was fidgeting and pulled out a cigarette—he _hated _fidgeting—and lit it, with a lighter not a hotknife. The silence seemed to last forever.
    "So, uh, this is Harry's."
    "Yeah." Why couldn't he think of anything to say? Okay, so he could think of a _lot _to say, but nothing that he _could_ or _would_. "It's alright."
    "Yeah." Kitty chewed on her lip nervously. _Probably tryin ta think of some way ta avoid me, _Wisdom though to himself bitterly.
    "So, ah, ya want anyhtin' ta drink?"
    "Uhm, no, I…I think I'll head home soon. I'm…uh…I have…I'm kinda tired. You know." _Argh! _She kicked herself mentally, _nice going, Kitty! Now he probably thinks you're, like, three years old, can't even stay up late!
    _"Well, here, I'll walk ya back."
    "Oh, no, I'm fine, I wouldn't want to—I mean, you're—that is, I wouldn't want to make you—I mean you can stay, I'm fine—that is…um." Kitty flushed faintly.
    "Well, unless ya don't want me to—" Pete began.
    "No, no! Not that! I mean, I'd love—I just wouldn't want to—you know—impose or anything—"
    "Oh, well then! I'll just settle me bill quick, if you're ready ta go."
    "Yeah, yes! That's be…that'd be great." _Calm down, Kitty,_ she counseled herself, _don't act so darn excited!
    _"Right then. B'sides," he managed a smirk, "you can keep me from getting' lost." Pete turned away to get Harry's attention.
    Kitty's eyes went wide. _Ohmigod! He remembers catching me on the roof! And…does that mean he cares? He cares enough to remember? Right? Oh, why are things so darn _complicated_?_ she moaned to herself.
    "Ready, luv?"
    "Yeah, sure! I mean, of course, yes…" She pulled her mouth shut before she said anything else that would embarrass her as they walked to the door. She waved at Wolvie to let him know that she was going back. He nodded, impressed that Wisdom would be enough of a "gentleman" to walk her back. He knew his pun'kin could take care of herself, but nobody else did, and that was really the problem—they wouldn't know not to bother her, but with Wisdom there, Logan had a feeling that nothing short of ten men with combat training would dare to do so—unless their was inebriation involved—and it'd be their mistake. He grinned feraly into his beer and turned away, deciding to watch the awkward bonding between the three kids.
    Pete and Kitty were both silent as the exited Harry's. Wisdom had even held the door for Kitty—prompting, of course, an agonized inner dialogue on both parts.
    _Oh my god, _Kitty wondered as she smiled uncertainly and walked past the black-swathed arm and out of the bar. _Does this mean he like me? Enough to break out manners in public, in front of people, like Logan? And no wisecrack or derogatory little sarcastic comment? Or does he think that I'm just some fragile little kid he has to take care of? Is _that _why he's walking me home? So that I don't get hurt? I _did _kinda look stupid when I landed on him at the boathouse. Oh man—he probably thinks he has to take care of me or something. Maybe so Logan doesn't flip? Oh darn oh darn oh darn darn _darn_!
    _Wisdom instantly regretted holding the door for the young American. _Oh fook—wot am I, some bleedin' old gent? Prolly thinks I'm some kinda bloody old-fashioned chauvinist or somethin' now, she does. Wot _am _I doin, bloody broadcastin' it? Wot if she figured it out? Oh shit, prolly get a bleedin' 'ell of a kick outta that one she would. Laugh herself ta sleep tonight she will, her and that bleedin' purple rat of hers…
    _* * *
    Granted, Harry wasn't the most strict or puritan of people, but he still drew the line at letting miners get drunk. And if you couldn't find some way to convince him you were old enough, he drew the line at letting them drink at all. And when Harry had rules, he had _rules_. You didn't break them, or you'd end up out the door with a bootprint on your butt.
    Unless your name was Logan.
    See, Logan was a special buddy of his. Not only did the guy take care not to hurt bystanders in his brawls (which were the best-fought ones Harry saw and some of the most entertaining), paid for the damages without complaint, helped take care of trouble, had some of the best stories, lost to Harry sometimes at pool, and kept whatever group he came in with inline. Not only that, he was a good friend. So the kids he was with today, some of whom Harry'd seen before, some he hadn't, were all guaranteed as good a time as Harry could grant.
    And when they tried to "convince" him of something, he believed them, of course. Honestly, Logan's friends would _never lie_ about their _ages_…never…
    About halfway back to the mansion, the two relaxed enough around each other to enjoy themselves more, and laughter escorted them out of Salem Center. The laughter attracted the attention, though, of some rather disreputable people loitering nearby. Pete noticed the "ambush" ahead, and his right hand slipped into his trenchcoat's pocket. Kitty didn't pay any attention to them until she heard the lewd comment directed her way. Apparently, a tall, skinny-looking dark-haired young man and a young teenage brunette weren't intimidating enough for the troublemakers to take their inebriated selves elsewhere.
    Pete relaxed slightly when he saw that it was just a few wanna-be-gang losers—but only slightly. Appearances, after all…
    "Hey, beanpole," one of the wanna-be punks yelled, "how about you step aside and give the gal a real man?" Kitty gaped at the rude gesture that accompanied the comment; Pete ignored it, having seen—and given—far worse.
    Pete quirked his eyebrows once in a way that he knew was insulting. "Who d'you have in mind, then, mate?" he asked quietly, a slight smile on his lips. "None 'round here—'less I missed somethin…?"
    The jerk frowned as his friends laughed and flicked offensive hand-motions at Wisdom and Kitty. Before he could say anything, Wisdom continued calmly: "Fag, mate?"
    The buzz-cut young "tough" colored beet red and glowered. He looked like he was going to start steaming shortly, unless he spontaneously combusted first. "Alright, you Australian freak—" the kid began.
    Pete held up a hand, still projecting slightly amused calm. Kitty looked like she was either going to turn and run to Logan and blurt out everything or pound the spit out of the guys and then use them for tap-dancing or practicing karate. Her face was beat red—and she couldn't possibly have known what half the lewd comments and motions meant, although a few were quite descriptive and graphic. "First of all," Pete said evenly, "I'm from England, not Australia. Get your accents—and your slurs—right, or ya just look like a pathetic git—wait, my mistake, right? Seein' as how ya are and all—" The group of boys crowded at that, and the particular "punk" Pete was directing the comment to went even redder, if that was possibly, his eyes all but disappearing into slits between his chunky cheeks. "So does that make ya the saddest piece of shite in the bunch of ya losers, or are ya one of the better ones? 'Cause, honestly, call me a stupid Englishman abroad, I can't tell." Pete casually pulled out a cigarette, offering the pack to the boys clustered in front of him. "Fag, you lot?"
    "What'd you call us, man?" one of the "toughs" yelled over the other exclamations, practically showing the boys next to him with spittle between a cracked front tooth and a tongue ring.
    An eyebrow raised slightly and the corner of his lips quirked into a thin smile. "My mistake," Wisdom smiled darkly at the gang, "forgot yer _slang _fer a tic. Asked if ya wanted a _cigarette_." The smile widened into a humorless smirk. "Fairly obvious yer getting _that _yerselves…" Kitty clapped a hand over her mouth. She either wanted to elbow him, hard, or burst out laughing, Pete wasn't sure which.
    One of the thugs shouted some dire imprecation, reacting faster than the others, and jumped at Wisdom. The others shouted rude comments, egging their comrade on, yelling for him to beat the snot of the stuck-up Englishman—and many other colorful imprecations. Wisdom let the boy get a swing in, sidestepping the blow and catching the wrist, using the momentum of the boy's punch against him.
    The shouts died out to a mutter when Pete straightened up slightly with the thug's arm and wrist bent back painfully in one hand, a knee in the small of his back forcing it to arch painfully, and the other hand anchored tightly on a cluster of nerves at the base of the punk's skull. The teenager wasn't screaming in pain only because all he could do was whimper.
    A block later, Kitty finally dissolved into the laughter she'd been struggling to hold back. She leaned on Pete for support and clutched her stomach. They shushed each other and ducked down an alley, not interested in provoking anything else—but unable to completely restrain their laughter. After a short, blunt lecture on "manners"—and what happened when certain bounds of propriety were overstepped by idiots—the so-called "tough guys" had all slunk off quickly with their tails between their legs—one of them supporting his pained buddy.
    Their laughter subsided slightly, and they suddenly became aware of how close they were. Her chin tilted up towards him slightly and they leaned towards each other more, his arm snaking around to support her waist, hers inching around the back of his neck. Before contact, however, Pete cleared his throat and straightened, and Kitty blushed deeply, hopping back a step.
    An awkward silence later, they were back on their way.
    The silence didn't last long, but the conversation died again in the hallway.
    "So, uh, thanks," Kitty began, her voice trailing off. She didn't want him to leave. She didn't want to go to bed. She wanted him to…_No! _she yelled at herself, _stop, don't you _dare _think that! _She hoped fervently that the blush she felt didn't show up on her cheeks. _Don't go there, Kitty,_ she chided herself mentally. _Just…don't. Not a good thought—especially in a house with a telepath!
    _"Um, yeah, sure luv, no problem…." Pete replied, running out of words.
    Their eyes met and time seemed to slow to a crawl. Without conscious thought, Kitty stepped forward slightly and Wisdom leaned down. His fingertips lightly brushed her cheek and a thrill of electricity coursed through her. He tipped her chin up slightly, staring into her deep, endless brown eyes. Kitty's breath caught in the back of her throat as his intense blue eyes caught hers. Her pale lips parted slightly and she leaned forward, eyelids dropping slowly.
    Their lips met, softly, a feather-light touch. Then pressing closer, gently… The world seemed to swirl around them, shrinking.
    After an eternity, they separated, far too soon.
    "G'night, luv," Pete almost whispered, eyes locked with Kitty's. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. Then he was gone, and she sank back weakly against the door to her room. The hallway seemed to sway around her and she closed her eyes, pressing herself against the sturdy solidness of the door. Her heart was pounding somewhere in the back of her throat. Her light coat seemed unbearably heavy on her shoulders, dragging her towards the floor. Her knees were weak and wobbled slightly.
    _Oh god,_ she thought, _oh god…Pete…_ Her mind seemed to be reeling as much as the hallway. With trembling fingers she fumbled with the doorknob, then gave up and stumbled through the door, intangible. She collapsed on her bed, phasing out of her shoes and coat. She clutched her pillow with trembling fingers and tried to slow her breathing. Tried to fight the image of his eyes, his soul, meeting hers, out of her head; tried to ignore the feeling of his lips on hers, and go to sleep. But she could still feel that gentle caress… Her fingers brushed her lips slightly. Something burned, deep within her soul. She struggled, finally giving up sometime in the wee hours of the morning, dropping into a light sleep filled with dreams of a pale, dark haired man with deep blue eyes…
    "Dammit," Pete breathed to himself on the other side of his door. Without bothering to throw off the trenchcoat, he poured and knocked back a long drink of scotch. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with his finger, not bothering to struggle with his lighter. He sank down in a chair, shoving his hair out of his eyes, trying to get the sight of _her_ eyes out of his mind as easily. He could still taste her kiss on his lips…
    He couldn't believe he'd done that. What had he been _thinking_?
    He hadn't, that was the answer. He'd seen those beautiful, golden brown pools you could drown yourself in and fallen right in. He didn't know _what _she did to him. Why he couldn't stop thinking about her, why he could stop seeing her, couldn't get her eyes out of his head, couldn't stop thinking about the feel of her lips on his, couldn't stop seeing her all the time…Why he though he might be…

Pete Wisdom was scared…


End file.
